


No One Else Will Have Me, Only You

by yokomya



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Songfic, Underage Drinking, mention of rape, mention of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 00:20:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4119784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yokomya/pseuds/yokomya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re trouble, huh?” Mickey asked finally, referring to the song Ian sent earlier.</p><p>Ian picked up on that and smiled sadly. He took another drag of their cigarette, holding the smoke behind his lips briefly before letting it go, handing the tobacco back to Mickey.</p><p>“Clearly," he murmured, "We both have the marks to prove it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One Else Will Have Me, Only You

Mickey stared down at the text message that had popped up on his phone all of three seconds ago, lips twitching. It was stupid really, how fast he had whipped the phone out as soon as it buzzed in his jeans. It wasn’t like he was waiting for Ian to text him, no fucking way.

 

_I'll hold your hand when you are feeling mad at me_

_When the monsters they won't go and your windows won't close_

_I'll pretend to see what you see_

 

There was no way he was impatiently finding things to do in his room, just to occupy himself so he didn’t go insane. There was also no way in hell that his mouth was twitching into - _almost_ twitching into - a smile at the words on the glass screen. For some reason, Ian took it upon himself to send Mickey snippets from songs that he liked every now and then, never talked about it to his face, never explained with other messages, just sent them.

Sometimes Mickey would catch Ian watching him wearily when he would come in for work or at the baseball dugout, and at those times Mickey figured out why he sent the lyrics.

It was Ian’s way of telling Mickey shit without being too blatant about it, because luckily Ian knew better than to try and talk about fucking feelings and stupid shit like that with Mickey by now. _Luckily_.

So, here Mickey was, reading this verse sent by Ian, confused, because half the time Mickey didn’t know what the fuck Ian was trying to say. Mickey quickly opened a new tab on the phone and searched the lyrics on google, found the song on youtube, and grabbed his headphones from the closet before he flopped onto his bed.

The song was called ‘Waste’, an indication that this was about to be shit, by a band called ‘Foster The People’, and what the fuck kinda name was that?

The song started and it was interesting to say the least, steady drum beat, some bell like melodies in the backdrop, pretty good male vocalist. Mickey closed his eyes, as he always did when he listened to the songs Ian sent him, and he listened all the way through. When the chorus hit, Mickey was attentive to the lyrics, finding a weird peace in them until his throat felt tight and his emotions seemed to bounce.

 

_Every day that you want to change, that you want to change_

_I'll help you see it through 'cause I just really want to be with you_

 

Maybe Ian was just sending him songs that he liked, trying to connect somehow in that girly way Mickey hated, but at the moment, maybe he wasn’t hating it too much. As he listened to the sweet and sad melody, he could almost hear Ian saying the words to him and Mickey felt more and more sure that Ian wanting to bond over liking the same music wasn’t really the case.

 

 

 

“Hey,” Ian greeted as Mickey walked into the Kash & Grab that morning. Mickey peeled his eyes away from Ian so he could go pick a few things up in the back and throw them on the counter, distracting himself from _that fucking look_ Ian was throwing him. Mickey didn’t work today and he sure as hell didn’t need a bag of pretzels or a carton of Coffee creamer, but he had fuck better to do.

“I knew it,” Ian muttered while ringing up the stuff. Mickey shot him a dirty look.

“You like your coffee sweet.”

“This is cream, asshole,” Mickey replied, drumming his fingers on the counter, corner of his mouth twitching anyways.

“Anyone who likes cream, likes sugar,” Ian stated lamely.

“This is for Mandy,” Mickey finished. Ian nodded, obviously not buying it. Mickey’s eyes swept the store and he smirked. “You alone?”

Ian bagged Mickey’s stuff and said, “I’m glad you don’t fucking shoplift anymore. That shit was getting hard to explain to Linda.”

Mickey didn’t reply, not wanting to have that conversation, he could feel Ian trying to get something out of it. The fact that Mickey stopped stealing had nothing to do with Ian and his fucking boss, it had all to do with Mickey getting bored of doing it. Maybe it just got annoying as hell to listen to Ian complain about it, especially the night he almost got fired for not stopping Mickey, and work would be even more hell if Ian got fired, _probably_.  

Ian had the audacity to rip Mickey’s pretzels open himself and snagged one but before Mickey made a thing out of it, he darted his tongue out at the pretzel, smiling with his eyes. The fucking pretzel had to be a pretzel _stick_ to which Ian took advantage and sucked some of the salt off the top, still eye locked with Mickey.

Mickey didn’t even give a shit if they were alone in the store anymore, if their boss was hanging around somewhere, he just went to lock the door and when he turned around Ian was already on his way to the back, way ahead of Mickey.

 

 

The movie on the Milkovich TV had Ian snorting, trying not to laugh too hard. Nothing particularly funny was even happening but after a joint and too many cans of beer, everything became a riot. Mickey walked back in from the kitchen and fell on the sofa by Ian, popping the lid off of a beer in his hand. When Ian reached for it, he easily pulled his arm back, eyebrows lifting.

“Not a chance, you’re wasted enough for both of us, man.”

“Come on, Mick,” Ian groaned, reaching out again, almost falling off the couch, “One more.”

“That’s what you said three beers ago,” Mickey smirked, leaning back.

The television seemed to go quieter, either that or Mickey's ears were losing their hearing, after noticing how close Ian was to his face.

“You’re really beautiful,” Ian blurted, blinking, perplexed. Mickey coughed on his beer, tearing his eyes away from Ian.

“What the fuck?”

Ian was staring at him, dazed, eyes clouded. He blinked more slowly and Mickey’s heart had stopped because he didn’t know what Ian was planning on doing. It could range from fucking kissing to vomiting due to the alcohol in the guy's system at this point.

Ian did neither of those, his hand curled up on Mickey’s leg, and he smiled softly at Mickey, fucking staring like he always did when he thought Mickey couldn’t see him. Mickey’s body was twisting into knots when Ian move closer.

“Mmm,” Ian hummed and fell over into Mickey’s lap, eyes sliding shut. His breathing softened as he nuzzled into Mickey who still awkwardly had his arm held out, shocked at the red hair and dozing face of Ian on his leg.

“Ay, get the fuck up,” Mickey tried. Ian answered by shifting more comfortably, body curling up to almost hug Mickey’s knee. Mickey watched as Ian breathed in heavily and released it, relaxing instantly. Seeing him like that, so trusting in the hands of a Milkovich, dreaming in this nightmare of a house that could shake and fall down at anytime of the day, Mickey couldn’t bring himself to move him.

 

Then Terry came home.

 

 

How could Mickey look Ian in the face after what happened? How could he turn around and talk about it with him? He _couldn’t_ , that’s how.

Mickey shot more rounds off from the gun, trying to drown Ian's shouting behind him out. It didn’t help.

“Would you just look at me?” Ian yelled, angry and hurt. Mickey said nothing and shot another bullet, watching as it whizzed for an instant until it hit the sac across the abandoned building, straight into the heart of his pseudo father.

“I know it’s bad,” Ian continued, voice breaking, “Really fucking bad, Mickey. Your dad and that Russian whore-” he broke off and swallowed, “I just- I want you to talk to me. Don’t bottle that shit up.”

Mickey still said nothing, unable to voice anything back. What was he supposed to say? Ian watched with his own eyes what the fuck went down, he didn’t have to repeat any of it.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Ian sighed, crossing his arms, leaning back on the wall of the building.

Mickey paused, considered turning around and saying something, although his vocal chords were kind of screwed up from screaming in the baseball dugout last night, drinking himself until he blacked out, all alone. In lieu of that, he fired more bullets off, finally landing a head shot, releasing a little bit of that pent up anger.

Mickey waited for Ian to walk off, the way he should have in the first place before all this shit with them started. Mickey was a Milkovich, life doomed from the start, meant to do dirty work, not meant for some forbidden romance, and Ian should have known to stay away a long time ago.

Except Ian wasn’t walking away, not even right now after seeing what his dad could do to the two of them.

“I’ll wait for you tonight,” Ian stated and then he walked off.

He wasn’t leaving because he wanted to, Mickey understood that, and unlike the other people who walked out of his life, Ian left with a promise, an invitation to come find him because he would be waiting.

 

 

Mickey paced his room for a little while, eyes fixated on the time on his phone. It was nearing midnight and there was no way Ian would still be waiting for him at the dugout. He brushed his fingers over his hair, aggravated at himself.

A text message popped up on the phone and he wasted no time opening it, thinking it might just be one of his idiotic brothers in a bind at a drug deal, but it was from Ian. _Ian_.

Mickey’s heart skipped a beat, not knowing what to expect.

 

_I want you to know that I've got your back_

_Even when the whole foundation seems cracked_

_Two punk kids up against the world_

_Ya trouble, there goes trouble_

 

Mickey felt a little flop in his stomach and found the song easily. Some guy named ‘Mikky Ekko’, weird fucking name, and the song was ‘Pull Me Down’. Mickey just plugged his ears up with the earbuds and sat down on the bed, closing his eyes to listen. The beat was easygoing and almost lulled him off to sleep, but he focused on the words, trying to catch whatever message Ian was sending him.

He snorted because the guy singing was talking about a girl and hell if Mickey was that. It was easy to ignore though and let the soothing blends of the singer’s voice, backdrop beat, and electronic waves of what was almost air pump through him. When the song finished off, Mickey had to rub his face to wake from his dream state and tugged on a shirt before leaving.

 

 

There Ian was, sitting at the baseball dugout beneath the stars, looking expectant when Mickey showed up, crossing the dewy lawn. Mickey dropped down by Ian and retrieved a lighter from his pocket and a pack of cigarettes from the other. Ian just watched him, leaning back on the palm of his hands, features soft. They passed the cigarette back and forth wordlessly, fingers brushing, lips indirectly touching, sharing smoke.

 

_I heard you were trouble_

_And you heard I was trouble_

_But your name is a wave washing over me_

_No games just a slave to you totally_

 

“You’re trouble, huh?” Mickey asked finally, referring to the song Ian sent earlier.

Ian picked up on that and smiled sadly. He took another drag of _their_ cigarette, holding the smoke behind his lips briefly before letting it go, handing the tobacco back to Mickey.

“Clearly," he murmured, "We both have the marks to prove it.”

Mickey could almost _feel_ the dark spots on his body where his dad beat him the other night, the itching under his clothes that wouldn't go away where he was touched against his will by the Russian. Then he glanced at Ian, just to see the scrapes and bruises across his own face.

They were both trouble, trouble apart, trouble together, surrounded by it, consumed by it. That had to be what was so fucked up and so right about why they were drawn to one another, never able to completely break away. Mickey breathed in more embers and released them into the night air, along with the heaviness in his chest.

He was a piece of shit Milkovich but if someone was willing to go through this much just to see him, maybe he couldn’t be that much of a piece of shit.

Ian looked at him so genuinely concerned that Mickey wished he would have grown up in another house, would have been taught to spill his heart out, that way he could talk this shit out and let loose like a normal person.

Too bad that’s not how it was so Mickey just shook his head and took another drag of the cigarette, then put it to Ian’s lips, almost affectionately, like it was all he could offer for now. Ian closed his eyes and let Mickey put the cigarette in his mouth, inhaling deeply, exhaling the white smoke just as slow, eyes opening.

When the ash was all burnt up, Mickey inched closer and started undressing Ian who didn’t hesitate to do the same back. That night they didn’t rush as much as usual and Mickey didn’t complain when Ian touched him softly, carefully, like he was trying to heal the scars on Mickey’s skin.

 

 

The only reason Mickey was marrying the whore that violated him was because the stress and pressure of his father. He was looming over Mickey constantly, eyes promising to rip Ian apart if he ever saw him again, and knowing that, Mickey caved. If he married this woman, that pressure might go away, his dad would stop breathing down his neck, would overlook what he was trying to have with Ian. That’s what he thought anyways.

The supposed good idea quickly turned to dust as soon as Ian appeared at the wedding. Ian's eyes were steel, never wavering and even when Mickey wasn’t looking, he could feel them at the back of his head. Ian was already drunk, Mickey could tell from the distance that separated them from across the room, because Ian was wobbling around, chatting miserably with nobody and swigging on a glass bottle of alcohol that eventually fell and shattered under him.

The room was full of people so Mickey couldn’t go to him, couldn’t explain any of this, there were too many witnesses, not that he would have the guts to explain in the first place. Mickey kept his attention close on where Ian was stumbling, trying to find more alcohol, and that's when Mandy and Ian’s older brother suddenly had a confrontation. This brought mild attention to their little circle and even when Ian shouted above their argument, only Mickey was really listening.

“Try watching the person you love - no, I’m sorry, the guy you’ve been fucking get married to-”

Before his sentence could finish, the older Gallagher, Lip, was pulling him out of the room.

Everyone was too drunk off their ass to really give much thought to what he said except Mandy, she noticed. She turned her head and met eyes with Mickey from across the room but Mickey broke the stare, found some alcohol, and sat down so he could drink the rest of the night away.

 

 

That night, after the Wedding reception, Mickey somehow stumbled home and crawled under the covers of his bed, suit still intact. After drunkenly falling out, the vibration of his phone woke him back up and honestly he couldn’t remember falling asleep with it in his hand. He unlocked the screen and found a few lines of text from Ian, sinking him.

 

_Don't feel bad for me_

_I want you to know_

_Deep in the cell of my heart_

_I will feel so glad to go_

The lines already had Mickey sitting up, instantly trying to find the song. It took seconds to get the band and title, ‘Asleep’ by ‘The Smiths’, which he quickly put into the youtube search bar. He shoved his headphones in and pressed play, shutting his eyes.

There was a heavy piano, beautiful and powerful throughout the entire piece, but the singer’s words cut through Mickey, made it impossible to feel relaxed. There was a soft white noise behind the music, a calming wind, connecting the instruments and voice together almost, bringing Mickey somewhere else for a while, until his mind drifted on Ian’s crushed voice ringing out across the wedding hall, eyes bloodshot, like they were tired of crying.

 

_Sing me to sleep_

_I don't want to wake up_

_On my own anymore_

_Don't try to wake me in the morning_

_'Cause I will be gone_

 

It was dawn out, the sun just breaking above the skyline, so Mickey dressed into something more suitable for a summer morning and went to the front door. He glimpsed at his sleeping father on the couch, flipped him off, and headed out.

 

 

He got to the Gallagher house in less than ten minutes and lucky he left when he did because Ian was coming out of the house, shutting the door, and going down the sidewalk opposite of Mickey now. There was a huge bag across Ian’s back and that alone had Mickey wired.

He rushed across the street and followed suit to Ian’s steps, squinting at him dubiously.

“The fuck are you doing?”

Ian looked shocked to see him but quickly increased his speed, firmly keeping his eyes in place ahead.

“Army,” he said curtly, like it wasn’t Mickey’s fucking business but it was the best version of _fuck off_ he could muster.

“You gotta be eighteen, man,” Mickey said, falling into step with Ian again.

“Found a way around that,” Ian replied dryly.

“What the fuck are you doing? You wanna get shot?”

Ian’s lips tightened and he turned the corner to the next street, Mickey following.

“You can’t handle a night in goddamn juvie much less a night with a bunch of crazy fucking Arabs.”

“That has fuck all to do with you,” Ian replied, hostile.

“Hey, don’t be a moron,” Mickey tried again, voice softening. He was so fucked if he couldn’t at least convince Ian not to do something this stupid. That little song Ian sent earlier was like a goodbye letter, too heartbreaking to forget, something Mickey wished he could bring up but the words were too caught in his lungs.

“Go home to your wife,” Ian shot, eyes glassy.

“You don’t understand shit if you think I got that fucking piece of paper for a good time.”

That was something, hell, that was all Mickey had. Footsteps slowing, Ian’s eyes were searching Mickey’s and he kept quiet. Then he fully turned back around, hand gripping harder on his backpack, pace increasing.

 

“ _Don’t_.”

 

Ian paused, glanced back, emotions flickering over his face. When they were looking at each other, it took all of Mickey’s willpower not to break the contact, his tongue going dry. After a few minutes, Ian tilted his head.

 

“Don’t _what_?”

 

Well, shit, Mickey didn’t mean to say it out loud but now Ian was waiting for something else out of him, for something more than a colorful choice of words or a witty comeback. He turned his head and then bit down on his lip, saying all he could think of.

“You want me to fucking sing you to sleep? Is that what the fuck you want?” Mickey asked, remembering the lyrics of the song from this morning.

Ian stared at him in a broken way but he finally cracked a smile, like he was relieved, like a heavy weight fell off his shoulders.

“No, I would rather get shot than have my ears bleed out,” Ian laughed softly.

“Ay, fuck you, it could be one of my hidden talents.”

“Yeah?” Ian wondered, eyes shining, alluding to what else he wanted from Mickey, the way he wanted to know the secrets and hidden words etched into Mickey’s closed off heart.

Mickey knew it too, he was afraid of it, that gaze. It made him ready to throw his whole life away for Ian, _fuck_.

But he knew that wasn’t possible, not in this tiny hell of Chicago. That’s what he always thought, that's how it was, _right_?

Then why did it seem so appealing, in this moment, standing here on the edge with Ian in the sunrise? If Ian could pack a bag and drop everything for the army, would it really be so hard to do the same? Could Mickey say _fuck you_ to his dad, his wife, his fucked up home, the streets, the drug deals, _everything_ , could he do that?

“Yeah, you never know what kind of shit I might do,” Mickey replied, shoving his hands into his pockets, hoping that meant something and Ian would catch on. Maybe he couldn't pretend he didn't give a fuck about his dad finding out about Ian and he couldn't run off into the sunset hand in hand, but there had to be a way out of here someday. 

Who the fuck else broke their heart over a Milkovich? Who else cried their eyes out over a Milkovich? Who the fuck else felt this way for _Mickey_?

Ian smiled, like he understood what Mickey wanted to get across, like he always understood. His eyes glittered as he swerved back around the corner, brushing by Mickey.

“We got waffles and cereal,” Ian informed on the way back to the house. Mickey turned around and followed, snorting.

“You're really running a five fucking star restaurant over here, huh?”

“You want breakfast or what?”

“If it keeps you from being a dumb ass again,” Mickey answered, shrugging. “Although, I think dumb ass is a lifetime disease.”

“Fuck you,” Ian laughed, “We both know who I caught it from.”

“Had to be, ah - Frank, right?”

“Nice try but he’s not even my real dad,” Ian grinned, swinging the door open to his house and tossing his stuff on the couch, already going to the kitchen.

Mickey slid on the stool by the counter and watched Ian shuffle around to find clean bowls and spoons.

“We got Coa Coa Puffs, Fruit Loops, and Frosted Flakes. Pick your poison,” Ian joked, hand on the bottom cabinet.

“Frosted Flakes,” Mickey shrugged, leaning over the counter.

Then it was like Mickey getting married and Ian trying to run away just slipped away, like they had to pretend things were normal, at least together, so the pain of dealing with all the other shit could be somewhat bearable.

Mickey watched the faint sunlight trail in from the window onto Ian’s face as he poured the cereal, the sparkles it sent over his eyes, the smooth traces of halos it left imprinted over his skin. It was mesmerizing. 

When Ian sat across from him, after putting away the milk, he had a secretive smile on.

“What the hell are you smiling about?” Mickey inquired, heat rushing to his face.

“You like Frosted Flakes, huh? I thought so.”

Mickey bit into his cereal and shot his eyebrows up in question. Ian laughed and tilted the bowl so he could pour some of it down his throat. When he was done, he exasperated.

“You like sweet stuff.”

Whatever that was supposed to mean, Mickey just grumbled and shoveled more cereal in his mouth, ignoring the way Ian watched him for the rest of the morning.

 

 

That night, Ian was about to go to bed, tired from spending the day fucking around with Mickey, a lot of fucking included. He crawled into his bed and let his eyes fall, ready to sleep forever, but a chime on his phone jolted him back to reality.

It was a blue html link, sent from Mickey. Ian thought it was going to be something funny because sometimes they would go off and send each other weird pictures they came across and laugh about them but the link lead to youtube. After waiting for the shitty internet to pick up speed, finally, the video started to play.

It was a song, weirdly enough, Mickey never sent him songs, not even when Ian sent them first.

He rolled over on his bed and put the phone by his ear, turning it up since his phone had muffled speakers, plus none of the Gallagher brothers ever woke up that easily. The song was by ‘Jimmy Eats World’, a band Ian actually liked, and it was called ‘23’, a song Ian never heard by them. 

He listened to the strumming of electric guitars mixed in with pretty stringed instruments, a weird but breathtaking combination. When the singer finally chimed in, Ian was completely captivated. He listened to the song in it’s entirety, almost tasting every word, trying to pick it apart. Mickey sent it so it had to be important.

By the end of it, Ian was trembling, a little shaken from how powerful and meaningful the lyrics were. His eyelashes were wet with fresh tears and he used his sleeves to remove them.

Somehow, in the song, he could feel Mickey's heartbeat, listen to the honesty behind what Mickey didn't know how to express. Ian smiled and sunk into his pillow, happy that Mickey did want more, that Mickey didn't plan on things being fucked up forever either.

 

_No one else will know these lonely dreams_

_No one else will know that part of me_

 

_No one else will have me like you do_

_No one else will have me, only you_

 


End file.
